


Never Enough Hands

by Kiarawolf



Category: Best Friends Forever (Webcomic)
Genre: Body Insecurities, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm, bffcomic, mentions of past body shaming, mentions of past bullying, skinny body insecurity, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:30:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4233945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiarawolf/pseuds/Kiarawolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Penelope's parting words have left Teddy more insecure about his body than ever. Attempting to gain some more confidence in himself, Teddy tries to build a link between skinny and pleasure; something that he's only able to alone, or... with Vincent.<br/>Excerpt: Sometimes he felt bold enough (brave enough) to ask Vincent to touch him. ‘You don’t have to push yourself like this dude,’ Vincent said as his (hesitant) hand settled, warm and near-weightless, upon Teddy’s chest.<br/>And Teddy thought about the way Vincent’s fingers rested in the (too-deep) grooves between his ribs, the way the bones lined up. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Enough Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the work [Indulge Me Away](http://anguishofmylove.livejournal.com/3973.html) written by [AnguishofMyLove](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anguishofmylove) :) I wanted to see how things might go if Vincent and Teddy’s positions were swapped!  
> All characters belong to Mickey Quinn  
> No profit is being made
> 
>  
> 
>  

  It was only a hand. A familiar palm placed upon his bare shoulder, a set of hesitant fingers trailing over the raised bumps of his spine – and Teddy closed his eyes and tried to just enjoy the sensation without letting the memories of forceful shoves and punches overwhelm him.

  Teddy wasn’t sure (didn’t like to think about) when it had begun, but he supposed the summer was as good a first mark as any. That was when he had first let Vincent see his scrawny frame and wiry chest. First let _anyone_ see him (vulnerable) shirtless. Well – he’d run around the house half naked as a child, and gotten changed with John in the room plenty of times… but that was – that was _before_. Vincent was the first person he willingly (hesitantly) showed his chest to, _after._

  It was only once he’d split with Penelope ( _I just think you need_ _…_ _to sort some things out--_ ) that Teddy tried to push things in earnest. When it was just him and Vincent, Teddy went shirtless as often as possible. Sometimes it was easy to do, while other times his hands trembled too much on the buttons.

  Sometimes he felt bold enough (brave enough) to ask Vincent to touch him. ‘You don’t have to push yourself like this dude,’ Vincent said as his (hesitant) hand settled, warm and near-weightless, upon Teddy’s chest.

  And Teddy thought about the way Vincent’s fingers rested in the (too-deep) grooves between his ribs, the way the bones lined up. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said.

  Alone at night, Teddy edged himself towards release while touching his sallow stomach. Another time, he played with the bones of his hip, trying to pretend that the prominent protrusions were attractive, that they were beautiful and sensual and worth being associated with pleasure (trying to push the words _skinny_ and _freak_ apart, trying to unknot them).

  It was only Vincent (hadn’t it always been?). Teddy had woken one morning, mind clear and determined to push things further… he’d padded down to the hall to Kennedy’s room, dressed only in his boxers, a sleepy question prepared (a casual: _can I borrow your jeans again?_ ); but outside the door he’d hesitated, arms hugging his torso, brain unhelpfully supplying every comment his sister might deign to supply ( _you need to eat more - so thin! I’m jealous - cover that up it’s disgusting_ ). It was ridiculous, of course. It was likely she had the same insecurities (how else would he be able to borrow her jeans?). He should be able to trust her.

  He should be able to do something as simple as this, just walk into his sisters room and ask a question and not be afraid that she’d point out his shoulders or his ribs or… But he couldn’t. It was only Vincent.

  He grew used to it. They grew used to it. Teddy’s bare back received massages, his stomach cuddles, his ribs ticklings. At first (flabbergasted) unsure, Vincent became accustomed to Teddy lifting his shirt over his head when they shut a door together. Teddy piled those memories up in his mind, stacking them higher and higher and hoping that one day they’d be enough to smother the other, older ones… the ones that still worked their way to the surface occasionally.

  The first time that had happened, Teddy had been too panicked to be able to voice his desire to stop; thankfully Vincent could easily tell that thoughts of cold showers and “skinny little freak” and broken glasses were swirling like a vortex through Teddy’s mind, sucking away his consent. Vincent quickly removed his hands from where they had been rubbing small circles on Teddy’s shoulders and fetched the shirt Teddy had discarded, helping him push his hands through the sleeves and buttoning the front up for him.

  The panics came less and less frequently. But.

‘It’s not enough,’ Teddy eventually said, ‘I still can’t…’

  And Vincent told him (uncertainly, cautiously) that there was no rush, that these things took time and maybe it wouldn’t be important to whomever Teddy wanted to impress. ‘It’s important to me,’ Teddy replied, as he remembered Penelope’s words of goodbye ( _I don’t think you’re ready for--_ ).

  He didn’t like it, but Teddy was okay with touching his own arms and chest and stomach. It was other people’s hands that caused the clench in his gut (the thought of his taunt skin and protruding bones under their fingers, his meagre frame under their gaze--). Not that there had been many hands (not in the _after_ , at least). In descending order of gut-clenching: John. Penelope. And… Vincent.

  In the dark before sleep, Teddy ran one hand over his torso and used the other to work himself towards release. If he closed his eyes, he could image that the hand on his ribs belonged to someone else. Penelope, he tried, but the unease in his throat and the memories of past failures took all the pleasure from the experience.

  Vincent. By now the ghost of Vincent’s (broad, calloused, warm) hands were present in every massaged muscle of his back, every dip of his ribs where familiar fingers had laid, interlocked with the bones. The pleasure returned.

  It wasn’t long until he realised the error of (creating) encouraging such an association. Now, every time Vincent worked the stress from his shoulders or ticked a laugh out of his ribs, Teddy felt arousal building.

‘Vincent, tell me if this is preposterous, but…’ Teddy knew full well that it was. It was totally and utterly preposterous (not to mention incredibly _fucked up_ ). But what else could Teddy do? He was never going to break through this wall on his own. ‘I don’t want another Penelope, you see. And in order to reach a place where I’m comfortable – ’ Teddy paused, swallowing hard – ‘comfortable with another person seeing my chest in a sexual context, it’s necessary to…’ Vincent’s eyes were wide and uncertain. Teddy looked away. ‘Practice,’ he mumbled.

  Vincent was hesitant the first few times, but he learnt. He learnt where to put his hands (a shaky finger on Teddy’s shoulder, a lingering grip on Teddy’s wrist, a splayed caress down Teddy’s ribcage), what to say ( _Teddy, Teddy, oh fuck, Teddy, so beautiful, so perfect--_ ).

  Teddy didn’t delude himself. He knew that Vincent burned through girls like a fire though a forest. Teddy didn’t want to be one of those girls, anyway, so it didn’t matter.

  It was wrong to use his friend in such a way, Teddy knew that. And yet with Vincent’s fingers circling his hipbone and Vincent’s voice murmuring that he was beautiful, Teddy fell (always so soon, ridiculously soon) over the edge harder and longer and more _completely_ than he ever had before. And it was wrong, wrong, _wrong_ , but it felt so, incredibly right.

  Each time, in the pleasant haze of aftermath, Teddy felt his gut clench as Vincent avoided his eyes and he told himself (every time) that it was the last time. It was clear Vincent hated the episodes, his blushing and stammering only worsening with every one of Teddy’s under-the-pants tugs. It was at it’s worse at the end of the proceedings (Teddy couldn’t help the moans that fell out during the wonderful, fire-and-floating end), when Teddy lay with a sticky mess drying in his pants and Vincent’s blush radiating so intensely that it was a source of warmth unto itself (not that Teddy needed any more heat, what with the pleasure still uncoiling--). And as soon as Teddy’s pants began to die down, his breathing falling into regularity even as his mind continued to drift in pleasure, Vincent would take the first opportunity to retreat to the bathroom.

  Vincent never touched anything but Teddy’s torso (and sometimes his hair) during their… their… Teddy wasn’t sure what to call it. All he knew was that Vincent took an awful long time in the bathroom, after they’d done – and Teddy tried to keep the picture out of his mind but it wedged itself in anyway; a picture of Vincent with his hands full of soap, scrubbing and scrubbing and trying to wash away the memories on his fingertips of vile bones and disgustingly skinny waists and pathetically small shoulders.

  Teddy tried to remember the words instead, the _beautiful_ and _perfect_ and _stunning_ that Vincent had whispered.

  Sometimes, while Teddy lay there panting and gasping with his hand down his pants and Vincent’s fingers tracing lines across his collarbone, sometimes Vincent smiled. The shy tug of lips never failed to make something flip in the depths of Teddy’s stomach, something hot and instant and not quite guilt and not quite longing.

  Sometimes when Vincent smiled, Teddy’s eyes were drawn to his teeth (white, straight, braces long gone). And sometimes Teddy’s brain jumped to the sleek blue car outside, and the rent from last month, and the bags of ski equipment cluttering Vincent’s closet. Teddy wondered if Vincent could afford (literally) to say no.

  _Why do you think he’s still friends with someone like you?_ The thought wasn’t new, but its sting was always fresh. Teddy thought of the football team, and the cheerleaders, and the supposed budding friendship with Louis. Vincent had other options. _Vincent has better options_.

  And yet here they both were.

  Sometimes (every time) Teddy wondered if he were to grab Vincent’s hand and lead it lower, if maybe Vincent would have no objections.

  But Teddy also hadn’t forgotten the girls. Kamri. Charlie. Bianca. ( _Jenny, Nina, Caroline_ ). He wasn’t going to delude himself.

  There was a line.

  The line was the waistband of Teddy’s boxers. Vincent’s fingers had come skating down along his hipbones (once, ruining Teddy’s carefully held composure, sending him over the edge faster than he’d thought possible) but Teddy knew they would dip no further. Didn’t want them to, because if the two of them ( _always, just you and me always_ ) started that then there would never be an end.

  But ( _he doesn’t want there to ever be an end_ ).

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Don't forget to comment :)


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